


Your Eyes Shall Be Opened And Ye Shall Be As God

by Paradise_Seeker



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Demon Dean Winchester, Gen, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Knight of Hell Dean, Mark of Cain, Post-Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe In Miracles?, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:44:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1676897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradise_Seeker/pseuds/Paradise_Seeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The screeching screams. The long whispers of agony. The sudden flashes of red and black, blood and bone. The distant roar of thunder, funnelling in crooks and hooks and chains, electrifying, mesmerising. The cruel lash of a whip. The murderous edge of a mad laughter.<br/>He's back in Hell again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Judgement Of Man

The screeching screams. The long whispers of agony. The sudden flashes of red and black, blood and bone. The distant roar of thunder, funnelling in crooks and hooks and chains, electrifying, mesmerising. The cruel lash of a whip. The murderous edge of a mad laughter. (Alastair? No, no, Alastair's dead. He's dead.)

He's back in Hell again.

Everywhere his eyes roam, nothing has changed. Nothing has evolved. Despite losing its their greatest leaders (Azazel, Lilith, Abaddon), Hell is still the same as ever. Ever unchanging. Immutable. The same darkness fills the Pit, the same cries for help echoes between these walls of flesh, the same broken pleas.

But he's not on the rack anymore. There's no whip in his hand, no soul for him to tear apart and torture. The blood-lust has faded, receded, and for once, for _once_ , he's at peace. There's nothing eating, _tearing_ at his soul. There's just...nothing. And he's too tired, too relieved to think about it any longer. He's at peace. He drifts in Hell, lets his soul scatter through the mess. Lets him lose himself. He doesn't want to relive that again.

But then, just as he's in billions and billions of pieces, just as he's finally losing all consciousness, all memories of being _him_ , something is pulling him, calling him. (Is it a summoning? Does it mean what he thinks it means, what he _knows_ it means, deep down?) There's a voice that resonates inside of him and all around him. That voice. He knows that voice.

_“Listen to me, Dean Winchester.”_

Dean. No. Dean's dead. He isn't Dean anymore. He hasn't got a soul anymore. He hasn't got a purpose anymore. He can rest, finally. No more monsters to hunt. No more people to save. He's done enough.

_“What you’re feeling right now, it’s not death.” ___

If it's not death, then what is it? he wants to ask. If he's not dead, what is he doing in Hell? Metatron killed him. Distantly, vaguely, he remembers the sharp pain of the angel blade piercing his flesh, his organs, his very soul. He died. He knows that he died.

But there are others words tumbling from that mouth he cannot see. Words about the Mark, about Cain, about lies. Why did you lie? he wants to ask. Because he did lie. Dean never thought the Mark would come with such a great burden. With such anger and lust for killing. Cain died human, for the same reason as him. He tried, but it wasn't enough. He wasn't his to control anymore. The Mark didn't let go. The Mark is still there. Now, he can feel it burning through his arm (an arm? Why does he have an arm? Is his body reconstructing?), through his veins, pumping its poison, pumping its borrowed life. Burning with red anger, dark vengeance.

Dean wants to scream. Pieces upon pieces, he's becoming whole again. He aches again. He hungers again. Where's the promised oblivion? Where's the forgiveness? Betrayer! he wants to yell. Betrayer! He will kill him. He will kill Crowley and Cain. He will kill them all.

_“It’s life. A new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean.”_

And Dean can see now. He can feel his vision changing with these new eyes that are forming inside his skull. The darkness isn't pitch-black anymore, it's shades of obsidian, of jet, of coal. It's shimmering, flickering. Everything is in spirals of fire, spirals of smoke. He can see the demon's true faces, he can see their monstrous heads, their jaws, their teeth, their claws, their horns. There are shades in the red and the black. Sulphur permeates the air but he's not coughing on it. He's breathing it all in, the blood, the roasted flesh, the rotten eggs smell. Everything that makes it Hell.

_“See what I see. Feel what I feel. Let’s go take a howl at that moon.”_

Something is pulling him again, and this time, Dean doesn't resist. He opens his eyes.

At first, he doesn't recognises where he is. There's a thick black veil clouding his vision, rendering everything darker than it should be. There's a pounding, in his head. A pressure he's unable to relieve. He feels another presence in the room, the same dark presence as his. Deep down, he already knows. He's known since his soul touched Hell, since it drifted and scattered to become something else. But he doesn't want it. He thought he escaped it.

_But the Mark never quite let go._

He can still feel it in his arm. Like a pulse point, throbbing insistently, tracing his veins with an angry red. It's like his heart has been transferred there. Does he still have a heart?

His throat is parched, his limbs, rigid. How long has he been dead? A few hours? A few days? His tongue doesn't seem to obey him, it's too heavy, too thick, too foreign. He doesn't feel like he's in his body but he is, oh he is.

His limbs don't seem to work properly, they are cumbersome, clumsy. He feels like Frankenstein's monster, new to this life, constructed from pieces of the dead. It isn't that far from the truth. The only part of him that seems really alive is his the arm that grips the blade. Like the blade is keeping him alive.

When he turns his head toward the dark presence, a part of his brain registers vaguely that he's in his room, in his bed. There's a bad smell in the air. He takes a moment to recognise it for what it is: rotting flesh. He smells like the dead. It's faint, but noticeable. How long has he been dead? Why is he in his own dead body if he's a demon now? Shouldn't he be possessing someone else, someone living?

_“Ah, there you are. I was wondering how long it would take.”_

His dead eyes swivel to the dark presence. The voice in him (the demon voice) whispers that this is his King, that he has to swear his allegiance, that he lives to serve the Monarch. He won't do the same mistake as Abaddon, for now. When he's stronger, he can defy the King. For now, he'll stay a Knight, he'll serve.

But a distant part of him, the _human_ part of him mocks the voice. It's Crowley. Crowley, who's he's seen shed tears like a baby and cry desperately for someone to love him. This pathetic excuse of a demon isn't his King. He isn't even a friend. He's a means to an end.

The obvious questions press against his lips: _“Did you bring me back? Why did you do it? What am I now? Why couldn't I stay? Is Metatron dead? Did we win?”_. But in the end, the first word to escape his mouth are:

“Where's Sam?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> English is not my mother tongue so feel free to point any mistake you see. This is my first SPN fic and my first publication on AO3 but I've been writing for years in other fandoms and on other websites. I guess many authors will have their take on this but the season 9 finale finally pushed me to write something. This could be developed into a multi-chaptered story if it is well-received but for now, I will just consider this a one-shot.


	2. Flesh Of My Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He drowns his sorrow and his mind in alcohol, searches in amber a courage that seems to elude him. Every time he closes his eyes, the dead corpse of his brother plagues him, the look of death in his eyes. His hands shake and the bottle almost escapes his trembling fingers. He can't. He shouldn't. But does he really have a choice?

_“If the situation were reversed and I was dying, you'd do the same thing.”_  
 _“No, Dean, I wouldn't. Same circumstances, I wouldn't.”_

The words seem hollow and distant, now, echoing between the walls of his mind, memories of only a few months past. Lies upon lies. Words meant to hurt and show that he didn't care, that he was his own person, that he didn't need his brother. That this sense of sacrifice was overrated, that it had to _end_ somewhere and it might as well be with him. They had suffered enough for _family_. How he had fooled himself. 

He drowns his sorrow and his mind in alcohol, searches in amber a courage that seems to elude him. Every time he closes his eyes, the dead corpse of his brother plagues him, the look of death in his eyes. His hands shake and the bottle almost escapes his trembling fingers. He can't. He shouldn't. But does he really have a choice? 

He said he wouldn't. But the horrible truth is, he can't be alone too. He can't lose his brother too. 

The cheap Jack burns his tongue and his eyes stings from the tears that gather under his eyelids. Because of the alcohol? Because of his brother? He doesn't know, he doesn't want to know. The whiskey thankfully clouds his mind, clouds the importance of what he's about to do. 

It's with a renewed determination and shaky legs that he walks towards the altar, lightens it, the cheap whiskey within reach. And he waits. And waits. 

The seconds come and go, then the minutes. There's no movement, no snarky voice to taunt him, no awful grin to torment him. He double-checks the ingredients, the symbols, but everything is right, everything is correct. So why doesn't Crowley answer him? Sam gets agitated, scared despite himself. What if Crowley refused to bring Dean back? What if now that Abaddon was dead and that he got Hell back, he didn't care about Dean at all? What if he refused a deal? 

He calls for the demon, screams until his voice is hoarse and his throat hurts. Tears of rage run down his cheeks as he kicks the altar, trashes the whole room. 

“You bastard! You only stayed when he served your purpose but when he needs you, you just abandon him! You coward! You...” 

The words fall from his mouth, all the more furious and useless. They tear at him and he somehow hopes that screaming them would make them leave, leave with all the feelings attached to his rage, his helplessness. He screams until he's void of emotions, until all the pain fades away for at least a moment. 

But wishes never come true with Winchesters and the pain still burns bright and ugly in his soul. 

His knees give in and he falls pathetically to the floor. The scattered mess of the summoning spell seems to mock him. 

_You lost your chance._

***

The red-eyed demon bitch laughs hysterically at him when he demands a deal. Her wavy black curls and mocking grin remind him of Ruby. He hates her instantaneously. 

“You Winchesters are truly something, aren't you? There was some speculation that you would call but I didn't believe it.” She paces in the devil's trap, more predator than victim despite her position. An ugly smirk shows the white of her teeth. She taunts: “Oooh, poor Sammy is miserable without his big brother, isn't he? He doesn't want to be alone, does he?” 

His fists clench hard against his sides. He can feel his blunt nails ready to pierce skin. But his voice is calm and steady when he says: “Do you want the deal or not?” 

Her smile is a poisonous as her laugh. His hand itches to plant a knife in her. 

“You have no idea, do you? This is too sweet.” 

“Spare me your games, I want an answer. Yes or no?” 

She crosses her arms against her chest, a self-assured smirk on her lips. She leans as far as she can towards him within the limits of the trap and whispers: 

“Dean is already here, genius. You called for nothing.” 

His blood suddenly turns cold. He can only stare at the black-clad demon, his mind refusing to process the information. _Dean is already here, already here, here, here, **here**._

“Here? Hell or Earth?” 

His voice is tense, his body tight, ready to spring. _No more lies, please, please. Tell me where my brother is._

Her smile is like a snake's. 

“Both, sweetie. Both.” 

Her piercing scream is infinitely more satisfying than her sniggers when the blade finally tears her insides. 

***

Nothing had prepared him for what had been waiting for him at the bunker. Despite the sayings of several crossroads demons, he couldn't believe, wouldn't believe until he had the proof in front of his eyes. Now, pinned to the wall by an invisible force – Dean's power – he can only stare in shock and betrayal at his brother. He fights it with all his strength but his body won't budge. He can't even lift a finger, paralysed as he is. He can only watch with horror his brother becoming one of the monster they've tracked all their life. His heart breaks in his chest. 

“Dean.” he tries, for the third time. “Dean, please.” 

The invisible grip isn't any less crushing, but it doesn't tighten either. Dean only stares back at him with these black eyes that will haunt his nightmares forever. 

He doesn't want to believe, but how can he not? This is not just one of Crowley's dogs in his brother's body. The anti-possession tattoo is still intact and no demon could possibly possess him. But despite this evidence, his mind won't process, can't process this information. It's all Crowley's fault. 

“You should have known better than trying to kill me, Sam.” 

The King of Hell dusts off imaginary dirt from his shoulder. His smile is amused and confident. When his eyes turn to Dean, there's an air about him that makes him sick. He looks at his brother like a proud father. 

Rage is fuelling him. His words are barely better than a hiss, through his clenched teeth. But anyone with ears could hear the wrath in them. 

“You did this. You did this to him. You wanted him this way, you always wanted him to serve you.” 

Crowley tuts and shakes his head, falsely disappointed eyes on him. Dean, at his side, doesn't utter a single word. He could be a statue, for all he does. He doesn't even seem to recognise him. 

“Oh, Moose. I told you, the Mark did all the work. I didn't have to do anything. A knight is supposed to serve his king, only the psychotic red-head forgot that. Dean will prove an invaluable asset, I'm sure.” he says as he straightened his collar. 

He turns towards his brother, still in his invisible clutch. He can't let him go like this. He can't let him be like this. At the last moment, Dean had pleaded, had begged. Don't let me become this. Let me die. 

_“Listen to me. It's better this way. The Mark. It's making me into something I don't want to be.”_

But he doesn't want to let him go. Not like this. Not like a demon. Dean would never have wanted this. If he had known...if he had known, he would have thrown away the blade as soon as he could. He would have broken it, burned it, rather than let it control his brother like this. 

“Dean, fight this! I know you're stronger than this. We can cure you! We can find a way. I promise, you'll be back to normal.” he pleads. 

Dean doesn't bat an eyelash. The grip only tightens a little. A warning. 

Crowley is smiling and struts in the bunker like he owns the place. Sam wants to punch him until every single bone in his body is broken. 

“Why are you complaining, Moose? You wanted your brother alive, didn't you? Well, he's alive, and better than new! Aren't you, Squirrel?” he says, with a wink in Dean's direction. 

Dean scowls. It's the first human reaction he's had since the beginning. 

“Is it enough?” he finally asks, voice calm and gravelly and indifferent. 

Crowley smiles fondly at him like he's the proud owner of a very obedient puppy. 

“Yes, I think Sammy here learned his lesson.” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Sam is released and falling to the floor. Pain flares in his palms and knees but he doesn't care. Lifting his head towards Dean, he begs: 

“Dean, you don't have to be like this. I promise, we can cure you, we can...” 

“No.” The word is final. His brother's eyes, dead. “There is no way to cure me.” 

And when the two demons disappear, leaving the nauseating smell of sulphur behind them, Sam can only curl up on the floor, cry silently and pray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finally decided to extend this in a four-chaptered “story“. The two next “chapters“ will respectively be from Castiel's and Crowley's POV. I'm not really satisfied with this chapter but I doubt I can do better; I'm not that comfortable with writing from Sam's POV.


	3. The Fallen Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before, he would have thought "abomination". The soul he had rescued from perdition had been tainted and scorched and broken, yes, but it had been bright, loving, it had been human still. Now, he can only see the blackness inside the body that had been Dean Winchester, the hideous horned skull that has replaced the familiar face and boyish grin he had learned to love. The beautiful green in his eyes has disappeared to become a solid black. Black has eaten the soul, replaced it with something foul and vile. The face in front of him is that of a monster and Castiel can't recognise Dean, the Righteous Man, in its features.

He watches hopelessly as Hannah and Ingrid and Neil and all the other angels rally to him once more. Once more with the desperate hope that he will answer their prayers, hope that he will find the way to get them back to Heaven. They never learned. They watched humanity, interacted with them, learned to somewhat love them, but they would never trade their immortal existence for a mere human life.

They never learned. 

They would still blindly follow him, despite knowing his stolen grace is waning. Despite knowing Metatron tricked him, tricked them all. All they can see is that he's the one who defeated Metatron, that there is no one stronger ready to take the lead and therefore he is their leader by default. 

Castiel is no leader. 

All he had ever been is an angel. A soldier. A captain. But never a leader. When he tried, it ended in bloodshed. When he tried, he proclaimed himself the new God. How could he have been so selfish? So vain? So blasphemous? 

Whenever he tries to do something good, he errs again. When he tried to put Heaven in order, he massacred hundreds, thousands of his brothers, even his dearest ones, all to become a parody of his Father. When he tried to fix Heaven, he got tricked, closed the gates of his home, condemned every dead soul to linger in the void, every brother and sister to have their wings burned and damned to being confined in a human body, a human life none of them wanted. And he became vulnerable, human. Hunted by his own family for a crime he wanted to think he did not commit. But he did. Despite all his good intentions, his decisions are always mistakes and always lead to death. 

Death. He exhales, slowly. Still using lungs that he should not need, not yet, anyway. Inhales. Exhales. Death. 

_Dean Winchester is dead._ Four words he tried desperately to erase from his memory. As if, if he could forget them, wash them away, he would erase his death. As if by denying it, he could pretend that Dean was alive and well. 

In the state he's in now, he can't heal him. He can't even fly to him. Much less bring him back from the dead. Where could he be? In the void, with all the desperate souls? Could he have become a ghost? Or worse, could he be back in Hell, marked by Cain and Lucifer? Castiel feels so helpless, so useless. There's a faint tug at his grace and he can only guess that it is Sam trying to pray to him. He's the shadow of an angel now. He can barely hear the voices of his brothers in his head, they have become indistinct and blurry, scratchy like an old vinyl. Sam Winchester's voice isn't even a noise. Just a vague sensation. 

Feeling all these hopeful eyes on him, Castiel knows that he needs to be strong. To at least try to make them understand. But he knows they won't. He knows that angels aren't built for free will, that he's the weird one with ideals and opinions, that he's too close to humanity, that he's _defective_. So he escapes that little part of Heaven Metatron fashioned for himself and goes back to Earth, without a single glance or a single excuse for his poor flock. 

The smell of Dean's blood on Metatron's blade haunts him. 

He calls Sam on his cellphone, and the voice at the other side of the line is frantic, desperate, hoarse, _broken_. It sounds like whiskey and tears and grief. His lungs are capricious again and Castiel can feel them constrict, can feel his throat refusing to let the air escape his mouth. 

With a calm he doesn't possess, he asks Sam what he knows of the situation, where he thinks Dean is. He doesn't want to say _what_. He can feel it in his bones, can feel it in the disgust and fear and pain in Sam's voice. _It's not Dean anymore, Cas._

And because he refuses to lash out, refuses to listen, Castiel hangs up and closes his eyes. He has the sudden urge to fling his cheap mobile phone to the nearest wall and the urge seems futile. _Terribly human._ The impulse itself is maybe another sign that he's about to lose the last remains of his stolen grace. Will he really die when the last of it burns away? Or will he just be human again? 

It's of no importance. Not when his friend is in danger. 

He concentrates on the tiny pulse that is the piece of Dean's soul that lingered in him when he rescued him from Hell. There is no corruption there, only pure Dean. He concentrates and, when he's found the resonating piece, gets behind the wheel. Dean is only a few miles away from here. With some luck, Castiel will be in time to catch him. 

***

Even if he had surmised this from Sam's call, even if he was already almost sure of what he would find when he finally reached Dean, he is still shocked, still stunned. 

The corpses litter all around him, bloody and gory, a tangle of dismembered limbs and entrails, their faces unrecognisable now (was it a man, a women, a child? He doesn't know, he doesn't _know_ ), the smell of blood and brimstone saturating the air. It's ugly, it's a mess and in the centre of it all is Dean. 

(Silently, he thanks his Father for Crowley's absence. He doesn't think he could do it with the demon with them.) 

Dean is covered in haemoglobin, the colour of his clothes barely discernible underneath all the red splashes, his face a cruel mask made of his victims' blood. But it's not his exterior that makes Castiel recoil. It's what it is _inside_ of him. For the first time ever, Castiel wished he could be human again. He's diminished but he can still see all creatures' true forms and faces. A damnation. 

Before, faced with this, he would have thought "abomination". The soul he had rescued from perdition had been tainted and scorched and broken, yes, but it had been bright, loving, it had been human still. Now, he can only see the blackness inside the body that had been Dean Winchester, the hideous horned skull that has replaced the familiar face and boyish grin he had learned to love. The beautiful green in his eyes has disappeared to become a solid black. Black has eaten the soul, replaced it with something foul and vile. The face in front of him is that of a monster and Castiel can't recognise Dean, the Righteous Man, in its features. 

All his instincts are screaming at him to purge the demon, to put it back in Hell, where it belongs. But Castiel is barely an angel anymore and it is a Knight in front of him and it's stronger than Abaddon was. Far stronger than Crowley, too. Has the King of Hell realised this? Is this why he tries to rally the demon – Dean, it's _Dean_ – on his side? 

“Dean...” 

His voice is soft, broken, disappointed. So disappointed. He had known. He had known, when he had first felt and seen the Mark. But foolishly, absurdly, he had hoped that Dean would have been stronger than this, stronger than the Mark. 

But he's of Cain descent. And despite all the love, all the will to do good, all the sacrifices, he's still a murderer. He's still worthy of the Mark. That thought makes him sick. 

Saving Dean Winchester. It had been his most important mission. Save Dean Winchester. Save the Righteous Man. He had laid siege to Hell, pushed his way through swarms of demons, slashed through tons of deformed souls and fallen angels to reach him. His charge. The Son of Man who started the Apocalypse and who should end it. A soul that had suffered for forty years in Hell. A soul which never would have had to carry that burden if Castiel had reached him in time. He had failed him then. But he had tried – oh had he tried – to repent, to save Dean Winchester in other ways. To help him, maybe even guide him on his path to stop the breaking of the seals. And all these years, he had tried to accomplish his mission. Save Dean Winchester. 

And now, he has failed again. 

The monster wearing his friend's face _– no, **Dean** , it's still Dean, it must be –_ turns towards him at the sound of his voice. His eyes widen almost comically, and the black recedes to give way to the green he loves so much. Something in his chest hurts – his heart? is it malfunctioning? – at the awe he can see in Dean's eyes. The awe and the fear. 

_Because it's a demon's instinct to run before an angel._

“I thought I had imagined it, back then, how you looked...” Dean says breathlessly, his voice strangely humbled. “But this is what you're really like. Pure light and power. I always forgot, before.” 

_When I was human. When I always treated you like an ally, a friend and not something to be feared._

The words are unspoken, but Castiel can feel them in the air, hanging heavy between them. He wants to grasp them, to cradle them to his chest like he did with Dean's soul when he rescued him. 

“I didn't think you'd remember. You didn't remember me when we first met.” he answers, softly. 

A sad smile graces Dean's lips. 

“You were wearing your vessel. How could I recognise you?” A contemplative look behind Castiel's back, a frown. “Your wings...they're torn. Almost...” 

Castiel inhales sharply. Self-conscious, he folds his broken wings behind his back, wishing to hide them from Dean's eyes. He's ashamed. Ashamed to have fallen so far, to be so weak, so _powerless_. He would be no match for a Knight of Hell. Dean could annihilate him without even lifting a finger if he so desired. 

Castiel raises his chin, defiant despite everything. Pride. What good has pride ever done for him? 

“Will you kill me now?” 

A choked sound escapes Dean's throat, like he's shocked even by the suggestion. 

“I would never...” he replies forcefully, anger tainting his words. Castiel doesn't let him finish. He takes a step forward, trying to avoid the corpses around them but it's no use. The crunch of the bones beneath his shoe makes him want to retch. 

“The Dean I knew was good, despite his faults.” A new step. “The Dean I knew would never have slaughtered innocent people.” Another step. “The Dean I knew would have fought his hunger to kill.” A final step. Only one foot separates them, now. Castiel meets his gaze, unflinchingly. “The Dean I knew would never have allowed himself to become a demon.” 

The black eyes have returned and the demon clenches his fists against his sides. The First Blade burns with an unholy fire in his hand. It could kill him so easily, whispering murdering thoughts to its master. _Kill the angel, kill the enemy. Kill, kill, kill._

Dean takes a step towards him, only leaving a few inches between them now, invading uncomfortably his space. A cruel jest to all the times he told Castiel that he was too close. But instead of the usual aftershave and leather and cheap whiskey, he can only smell the horrid stench of sulphur. Demon. 

“And how could _you_ know, uh? Where were you when I needed you, Cas? Off with angels again, leading them, trying to do _good_? What I did, I did it to save you, to save Sam, to save all humans' sorry asses. Did I get a thank you for it? No! I was tricked and damned to Hell for trying to rid the world of those who wanted to _destroy_ it.” he says, an ugly grimace on his face. His eyes are burning with hatred and hurt and despair. He can see his face more clearly than the horned skull now, as if some human part of Dean remained. (Is it possible? Could it be?) He can feel his desperation in his words, in his tense shoulders, in the desperate grip he wants to embrace him with but won't. 

_Please understand, I don't want this. I never wanted this._

“I don't know how to help you.” 

Dean's shoulders slump, all fight suddenly drained from him. There's no urge to kill, no hunger for blood. He's just Dean, a boy that grew up too fast, a man lost and scared and looking for guidance. His head falls forward, landing on his shoulder. Castiel can feel some of his tension relax from the small contact. 

“I don't think anyone can help me.” comes the muffled reply from beside his ear. A small voice, tired. So tired. 

He lifts his hand hesitantly before closing his fingers on Dean's neck, where no blood taints him. The man shudders but allows the touch before sagging into it. Castiel pulls Dean closer to his chest, murmuring in his hair: 

“I rescued you from Hell once. I can do it again.” 

His words are shallow, an empty promise. But Dean still laughs. Hollowly. It rumbles against his chest and his short hair tickles his chin. Castiel never wants to let him go. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that you did.” He inhales deeply, breathing in and out several times before he slowly detaches himself from the angel, who releases his grip on him. Castiel instantly misses his warmth. Dean's eyes are green again but there is an unbearable sadness in them. “But I'm not human anymore, Cas. I can come and go as I please in Hell. And soon, you won't be an angel anymore.” 

Castiel flinches at the last part, knowing his time is short. But it's with a firm voice that he says: 

“We'll figure it out. Just like we always do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can consider this destiel or you can simply think of them as close friends. Whichever version suits you best.
> 
> Crowley's part should normally be much shorter. I may or may not write a fifth chapter. I'm still considering it.
> 
> On another note, I'm currently writing another story, an AU, this time, and with a much lighter tone.


	4. The Fear And The Dread Of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you say about a trip home, darling?”  
> Green eyes rise up to meet him. They are cold and lifeless, like they've been since he's been back from the dead. If it wasn't for the breath that made his chest rise rhythmically or the colour in his cheeks, Crowley could have believed he was actually face to face with a corpse.

Dean Winchester was a formidable ally. And not just because he was a Knight.

Even when human, he had been...interesting. He had potential. It was, quite literally, in his blood. The infamous Winchesters who started _and_ averted the apocalypse. Who killed all Hell's greatest names except his and, well, Lucifer, but the poor sod was imprisoned so it wasn't any better really. And he wasn't blind. Moose may have been the one with the demon blood, the so-called _“Boy King”_ but Dean had always been the one with the most demonic potential, always been the most prone to fall into darkness. He had always been the tool, the deadly weapon. Daddy's blunt little instrument, Alastair's successor, the Righteous Man, Michael's sword. Give Dean Winchester a purpose and he will go to the ends of the earth to accomplish it. Be it killing a demon, saving his brother or saving the world. He doesn't care at all about himself, lives only to _serve_. It is something that is definitely a plus in Crowley's book. Dean is like the ultimate attack dog, the ultimate killing machine. He bites and growls, oh yes, but put him on a leash and he's the most obedient mutt you'll ever see. King of Hell's best friend, really.

True, at first, the horned skull was still a little disconcerting in lieu of that chiselled top model face but Crowley wasn't one to look a gifted horse in the mouth. He's got a Knight of his own, with the First Blade even, and isn't that brilliant? A Knight more powerful than Abaddon, deemed _worthy_ and chosen by Cain himself? He's like every evil monarch's wet dream. Dean Winchester was a gem and his gem was to be cherished and treasured.

So he had let him wander off, blow off some steam, as a sign of good faith, you see. Crowley had no doubt; Dean had been right under his command with his brother and for Crowley, it had been proof enough that he had Dean Winchester right under his control. If Dean had one weakness, it was his dear little brother Sammy.

But since he came back from that little killing spree, he seemed a bit off, not as bloodthirsty or obedient as he thought he would be. He didn't respond the way he used to, he wasn't as angry as before, as brutal as before. Maybe it was just some lull, he thought. Maybe the only thing he needed to keep Dean right on track was to give him some bone to chew, some people to kill. Hell was full of spares and broken pieces after all. Dean could easily feast on that.

He had hoped. He had firmly believed some fresh demon meat ( _“look, this is one of your past tormentors, wanna get some revenge?”_ ) would solve the problem in no time. But despite all his best efforts (people to kill, curvy girls, overpriced beer, Hell, even the best burgers and pie in the country!), it didn't work.

There's something different about him now. His animalistic side seems to have receded. And Crowley is not stupid. He can tell, even without the sound of those fluffy wings or that gravelly voice that the bloody angel has had his hand in this. He doesn't know how or what he did, but Crowley doesn't like it. He doesn't like it one bit.

The worse thing it that it _doesn't fade away_. Dean keeps becoming more and more like his old self, he shows guilt and regret and all things human that Crowley doesn't want him to feel. He's afraid he's going to turn out like Cain, reformed Knight of Hell, retired warrior living peacefully in some godforsaken shithole. No, he worked hard to get this prized weapon and, like the Mark, Crowley doesn't easily let go.

So, one day, he takes the matter in his hands. Dean and him are seated at one of those bars the Winchester loved so much in his human life. Those seedy joints full to the brim of lowlifes and cheap things he so easily blended in. However, the hunter's eyes never leave his still full plate, not even when pretty girls try to chat him up. His beer sits there, untouched. Even in a crowd, he seems alone, lost in thought, dead to the world. Unfortunately, that doesn't surprise Crowley.

Leaning forward, both arms on the table only a few inches from Dean's owns, face open, with a smirk that has won him tons of souls, he murmurs towards his protégé:

“What do you say about a trip home, darling?”

Green eyes rise up to meet him. They are cold and lifeless, like they've been since he's been back from the dead. If it wasn't for the breath that made his chest rise rhythmically or the colour in his cheeks, Crowley could have believed he was actually face to face with a corpse. But isn't it true, in some way? Dean came back, but he came back different. His humanity has disappeared and somehow, he's only the Mark's puppet. He's just an empty shell with the desire to kill. The cadaver nods imperceptibly, like he doesn't really care, doesn't really have an opinion. It's all Crowley needs to zap them home. The mortals don't even noticed their absence. A generous tip awaits the dimwitted waitress, more than she deserves but well, Crowley is feeling magnanimous today.

They are not in the super-organised part of Hell he designed himself and prefers (an eternal waiting line, what a stroke of genius) nor are they in the dungeons, where the special souls reside. No, they are in good old Hell, fire and brimstone, the endless pit, the lakes of flames, the walls of flesh and bone, yadda yadda. All those theatrics are not really to Crowley's tastes but you can't change what Lucifer himself created after all.

They are in the middle of it all, damned souls walking around them in endless misery and punishment, demons torturing some new addition to the décor or another. Clad in his favoured expensive suit, Crowley doesn't really fit in here. He's a salesman, not a _barbarian_. But Dean? Oh, Dean _shines_. He shines in his blackness, in his characteristic unholy fire. The horns adorning his skull almost seem like a twisted crown on his head and demons bow to him and souls cower at his view. They can all see the red mark burned in his essence, the Mark of Cain, of Lucifer himself. The Chosen. In his worn jeans, combat boots, flannel shirt and leather jacket, he instils dread and respect. Crowley could have feared the power the Knight seems to hold onto them all, all those inhabitants of Hell, but the King doesn't falter. He strolls confidently in his realm, Dean soon on his heels. As long as he keeps Dean happy, he won't try to rebel. He will obey, because this is exactly what Dean Winchester is good for. Following orders.

 

***

 

All is well and good for a few weeks. All this time, they stay in Hell's darkest corners. The darkness of the pit seems to flow into Dean, fill him. He burns brighter here, like a dying star on the brink of explosion. He's well on his way of becoming a black hole, swallowing all life surrounding him. He's become Hell's chief executioner, exterminating all those who still defy his authority, all those whose loyalty Crowley doubts. He delights in seeing him working.

He's a born killer. Focussed, single-minded, he's ruthless and fierce, unrelenting and merciless. Watching him work, watching him kill is like watching an artist in his element. Dean could be passionate, cold, smirking as he slashed demons after demons, impassive as he murdered children in cold blood. He sees a new version of him at every kill and it's fascinating to see. It's like his own private TV show. Crowley detains the deadliest weapon in the world (angels are all pathetic creatures, their wings burned and their home closed, they're paralysed, crippled, _powerless_ ) and he basks in the glory of it.

Everything is perfect until it isn't.

Dean spends more and more time on Earth now, and he's not killing anything or anyone. Crowley knows, he's the one who cleans his mess after all. He spends more and more time in the same spot, the same place he shouldn't be visiting.

That damn Kansas. Crowley hates Kansas. Bloody Wheat State.

One day, he intercepts his protégé in Lebanon, where he knows the Winchesters' new home lies underground, invisible to the petty civilian eye. He has little doubt of what Dean is doing in his free time and it doesn't please Crowley at all. So, one day, desperate and exasperated, he asks, yells, in his bloody Knight's face:

“What do you want, Dean? What do I have to give you to keep you happy? You want your brother, is that it?”

“No.” His voice is cold, dead. Infinitely precise. Crowley notices the fact that the black eyes' appearances are scarcer and scarcer. It doesn't fail to irk him no end. “I know Sam is okay. He doesn't need me.” The green stare suddenly gets more intense, more alive by the second. Crowley is almost frightened by it. “Cas. I want Cas.”

“Your pet angel?” Crowley has no doubt his eyes are bulging from his skull. Hell, he had not expected this. Did Death finally open the Winchester's eyes?

Dean's face twists in a vicious snarl and the First Blade is gripped tight in his fist, the Mark burning with an angry pulsing red on his arm. Crowley eyes them warily. Dean would not _off_ him now, would he?

“What other Cas do you know? I can't go in Heaven. You have your way of knowing. You're the King. Act like it.”

Crowley bristles.

“So what? I can serve your little twisted fantasy of living happily ever after with Feathers? He's an angel, you dumb thing. You're an _abomination_ to him.” Crowley spits. And regrets saying almost immediately. Dean's stare is incendiary and murderous. He has seen that glare before and he doesn't want to be on its end. He's ready to flee when a strong hand clasps around his arm like a steel manacle, grounding him to the soil of that damned Kansas. With fear, Crowley realises that Dean is strong, far stronger than in the beginning. His power grew to the level of Cain. He can't compete, he can't compete at all.

“You wanna live? You give me what I want.”

Sweat covers his brow, the drop of salty water soon travelling down his cheek and dying at his throat. He hasn't sweated in centuries. He's terrified, he realises. Dean's grasp is worse than a devil's trap, worse than chains. He could kill him with just one touch and Crowley wouldn't be able to do anything. He swallows nervously, painfully, his throat suddenly dry. If only the truth was sweeter, kinder. He stammers:

“Your angel's not in Heaven anymore. His grace finally burned out. He could be dead for all I know.”

“Liar!” Dean bellows, the First Blade now on his neck. He can feel the jagged teeth of that bloody jackass bone digging in his skin. It can't cut like a normal blade, but with enough force, it sure can kill him.

All of Dean's body is pressed behind that blade, all his hatred directed at him. The horrible truth. He doesn't want to listen to it, even acknowledge it but Crowley would be a fool to lie to him. It might save his hide for some time, but sooner or later, the hunter would discover the deceit and come after him. And he would be even more furious. Even more determined to kill him.

“Why would I lie when the lie only makes you angrier?” Crowley reasons. He desperately wishes there was still some reason to Dean Winchester, but the man had never been one to follow his brain, after all. “Heaven's in chaos. Nobody knows where he is. He just fell.”

Dean narrows his eyes at him and Crowley regrets wishing for the black to return. Watching this face, the grimacing horned skull that is the trademark of all Knights, the King of Hell feels fear like never before. This is the new Father of Murder, he thinks. This is my murderer.

Dean's face is suddenly only inches from his, black eyes filled with hate and madness, teeth bared like a dog, a low growl in his throat. For one second, one terrible second, Crowley is sure Dean is going to bite him, tear him apart with his teeth, like an animal. He closes his eyes involuntarily as the stink of death and sulphur invades his nostrils. This is it. This is it.

Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, Dean releases him. Losing his support, Crowley falls gracelessly to the ground. He lifts his hands to protect himself, but Dean isn't here anymore. He shakes, trembles and feels like he's about to pass out. He crawls to the floor, knees draw together beneath him. His hands join in a gesture he has disdained all his life, sweaty palms against each other. He prays.

He prays that the angel is still alive, wherever he is. Because he doesn't know what will happen if he isn't.

_God have mercy on us all._

 

***

 

He disappears for days, weeks. Crowley doesn't follow him, doesn't keep an eye on him. He's lost all hope. His dog is free, wild and roaming the earth for his prey. He won't stop until he finds it, won't stop until he has it in his arms. Before, Crowley could have admired the determination, the loyalty. Now, he can only mourn the loss of his soldier and fear the outcome of it all.

If he's dead, he won't stop killing until everything has disappeared from this earth. He won't stop until there's nothing left to kill anymore. Crowley is sure of it.

Finally, three weeks after the revelation, a sharp cry resonates through Hell, making it tremble in its foundations, echoing between the walls of flesh and bone. For a moment, all movements stop. The demons stop torturing, the souls stop walking, the endless murmur dies. Even the rivers of blood and flames seem to come to a stop. Hell holds its breath and waits.

Broken words and pleas and curses follow. Anger taints them, and sorrow, and hate. But the sadness in the raspy voice is overwhelming, suffocating. It grabs them by the throat and chokes them, slowly, irrevocably.

When Dean Winchester cries, all Hell bleeds a little with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I could not not make this destiel. For all those who wanted Gen, I'm sorry. Still, everything is quite implicit so I hope I didn't anger those who don't like the ship. As for Castiel's death, I sincerely love the character and I hope he won't die in season 10. I just love angst too much.
> 
> Therefore, I changed the tags accordingly and in the same time, changed the chapter titles too. They are all song titles from Noah soundtrack.


	5. For Seasons, And For Days, And Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's watching the bees when he feels the first signs.

He's watching the bees when he feels the first signs.

There's the taste of electricity in the wind and the air is suddenly cold, so very cold whereas it was a pleasant autumn chill just a few seconds before. The animals scatter to the four winds, scared and screeching. The earth trembles when he comes. It groans and cracks and opens beneath his feet. Still, the fault isn't large enough to engulf him. He walks on the line, one foot on each side. Split in two.

The eyes are black when he faces him. He can see and smell the death that clings to his skin, to his distorted soul. He should feel alive. Putrid but still alive. Unless he doesn't consider himself to be among the living. Unless he doesn't want to live.

It's been a year since he saw him first and last. He had seen a man burning with determination, then. A man with a purpose and eaten up with guilt, trying to hang onto anything, anything at all.

What he sees now is a monster wandering helplessly and wondering _is this it? is this all there is?_ There's no joy, no determination, no flame in him anymore. He has given up. Only a few months and he has given up. What would become of him in decades, centuries, millennia? Cain had kept his promise, had kept his word. What does Dean have?

It saddens him when he sees what he has become. What he was doomed to become as the bearer of the Mark. Cursed, like him.

He walks towards his Chosen, now free of his protection suit. Dean only stays safely at distance, without any emotion in his eyes. His fingers grip the First Blade tightly. Cain doesn't spare it one glance. He can feel it in his bones, can feel it calling to him.

It is soaked in so many people's blood. Innocents and monsters alike. Soon, it will absorb his too.

“So, you came.” he finally says, eyeing the man in front of him. He doesn't flinch.

“I made a promise.”

And this is all he says. He doesn't come forward, doesn't move. Is he stalling? Is it because after that, he won't have anything to do anymore? Won't have any goal to fulfil?

“Have you found something to hold on to?”

The eyes flicker green for one second. The solid black returns quickly. There's sadness in them, now.

“I had found someone, yes. But he's dead now.”

He nods simply, understanding. He won't ask questions. It's not his place.

“And your brother? He still loves you.”

The head moves a bit, avoids his gaze. He can see the human beneath the horned skull more clearly now. But the blackness inside is still devouring him, still gnawing away at his soul.

There isn't any flesh left on these bones.

“Yes, he does.” There's guilt and anguish in the cold cold voice. A heavy breath lifts the chest before it falls again. A mechanical gesture. A too human habit.

Soon, he will forget the need to breath.

“But we can't... _I_ can't stay with him. Not when I don't even know what I want anymore. The Mark could make me kill him and I wouldn't even know. I don't want to risk his life. He's better off without me.”

Cain nods. He has nothing better to say. Dean shakes his head before he comes forward resolutely, determination clear in his stance but not in his eyes. The fire in them died a long time ago.

“Are you ready?”

His head dips forward. He has been ready for centuries, now.

The Knight lifts the Blade high in the air, like in a theatrical gesture, before he plunges it almost savagely in his heart. When it sinks into his flesh, when the ragged teeth rip his veins and arteries, it feels like deliverance.


End file.
